


to the aching throat

by saintsurvivor



Series: atrophy & other stories [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praying to Castiel, Psychic Abilities, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester and Religion, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: “You are not a monster, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel tells him. “And I’ll burn in the flames of hell before I allow you to make yourself into one.”





	to the aching throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humancorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humancorn/gifts).



> **Author's Note #1:** So, this is my secret santa gift to humancorn, pansexualgabriel on tumblr; I hope you like it!  
>  **Author's Note #2:** Also, I hope everyone has had a nice holiday, and will have a happy new year, and too all those working on new years, or worked on the holidays, _i feel your pain_  
>  **Author's Note #3:** Also, come say hi! You can find me at[svstiels](http://svstiels.tumblr.com)

_your heart is raw and bleeding / everything is strange and terrible_

— **Vasily Grossman** , tr. by Robert Candler, from “ _Everything Flows”_

“Hello, Castiel.” Sam says quietly, eyes upturned to the dark ceiling.

The motel room is quiet around him, only the soft faint snores of Dean on the bed nearest the door and the soft thrumming of the radiator just to the left of him. He could probably be louder, but something about the quiet darkness around him makes him feel that something is breakable around him. Sam has broken enough things in his lifetime, he doesn’t want to break this tenuous thing that he’s found for himself and Castiel.

Then, just as quietly as before, Sam says; “I hope everything is going well for you, wherever you are.”

He raises a hand, runs it over the bronze amulet he can feel resting against his heart. It aches, a secondary emotion he feels deep in his gut. The wound is fresh, but no fresher than the guilt he feels. It’s penance in a way; a way of self-flagellation.

Something shifts in the darkening sky, and a pale shadow of moonlight illuminates the very edges of Sam’s fingers, luminescent through the gap of the sheer curtains. Despite knowing that it's just the moon, not gracelight nor Castiel’s eyes, it makes him feel as if Castiel is with him, not just listening to his prayers. Perhaps he’s always been fanciful like that.

“Things have been quiet,” He murmurs, flattens a hand over his heart like Castiel had, all those nights ago. It isn’t quite right, he doesn’t have the same settling of calluses of Castiel, nor the tender touch that Castiel always affords him, but it’s close enough. He’s always craved touch, and he’s been almost spoiled with Castiel’s affection with him. “I miss you. It’s strange to realise how much time we actually spent together before; I never thought that we had but I miss you. Very much.”

It is strange, really. Sam had never thought they’d spent that much time together. But missing Castiel seems to settle into his chest as naturally as missing Dean did, like a flower that blooms only in the absence of them both, and it _aches_ , sweetly.

He opens eyes he never quite realised he’d closed. He can hear the distant sounds of a vehicle, and as he watches, the white blue headlights shine through the broad opening of the floral curtains, illuminating the curve of Dean’s back briefly, facing Sam, before falling across Sam himself, alighting upon his eyes and making him squint at the ceiling.

The bright whiteness of it makes him think of Castiel all over again, the gracelit shine of his eyes, the curve of his cheek, the furrow of his handsome brow. How his mouth had felt against Sam’s, warmth and soft like silk. Sam wants to kiss him again, he finds. Wants to let his hands rest upon Castiel’s cheek, feel the jut and the stubble of his jaw beneath his fingers and kiss him, tenderly. He thinks he’s never wanted to kiss someone as badly as he does Castiel, perhaps only Jess.

He thinks a thousand years could pass, and he would still think of Jess, an old age ache settled deep in his bone. He exhales softly, closes his eyes and counts the stars that spark before the darkness of his lids. Dean’s snoring ceases for a moment, and Sam opens his eyes, can see the roll of Dean’s body as he settles back into sleep.

He’s right beside Dean, right beside his big brother and yet he’s still so far away. His eyes burn, but he hasn’t allowed himself to cry, not since he fished their bond out of the trashcan and wondered if there was anything he could do to fix it. Beneath his closed lids, he can see the flickering sign of _NO VACANCIES_ just in the distance, violet, can hear the groaning sway of it in the gentle wind.

“I don’t know how long I can do this, Castiel,” He says, as quiet as he was in that church all those weeks ago, with how Castiel had hovered above him, had given himself to Sam in ways Sam will never be able to fully comprehend.

“I _will gladly take that which hurts and haunts you_.” Castiel had said, as if he had no idea what he was saying, as if he had no idea how Sam had cradled those words in his mind and had let them sink into his soul. Castiel’s sheet lightning that isn’t still races under his skin, a livewire buried into his skin that lights itself on fire at the slightest motion.

Castiel says that he comes because Sam needs only to call him, has to only think of him and Sam wants to drown in the relief, wants to slip beneath the silverlit waves of Castiel’s grace that wrapped around him all those weeks ago. Even now, he closes his eyes and he is back in that church, in that run down chapel.

In his dreams, in his memories, he has no need of his body, of his humanity; he gives himself fully to Castiel, to The Lord, and it’s like coming home in ways the Impala used to be but now never is.

“You think remarkably loudly when you want to, Samuel.” A quiet voice comes, and Sam would be more startled if he hadn’t felt the soft brush of feathers, the constant scent of ozone and peppermint, singed around the edges.

“Perhaps you were just listening particularly closely?” Sam offers, soft enough he knows it’s covered by Dean’s snores. Castiel hears him clear as day anyway. He watches the Seraphs silhouette move, backdropped by the flickering _NO VACANCIES_ sign still swaying in the wind. A hand touches the bare skin of his left ankle, and it’s like he’s dipped his foot into a warm bath.

“I would be lying to both you and myself if I said that I hadn’t been particularly attuned to you, beloved.”  Castiel says, and he’s close enough to feel the heat of now, close enough to touch, and Sam doesn’t want to restrain himself. Doesn’t want to keep from touching Castiel, but he ruins all that he touches, ruins all that he loves; and Castiel is something he doesn’t want to ruin.

Doesn’t want to see how Castiel will react if Sam touches him in the ways he wants to, hands around his, forehead against his, mouths barely touching. Sometimes, in his dreams, they’re simply lying on the bed together, ozone wings wrapped around Sam again, soft Enochian like warm summer rain against his ears.

He wants things he should not want, but Dean has always called him selfish and Sam has come to love everything that will ever hurt him; it’s a wonder he doesn’t love himself more.

“You can touch me,” Castiel murmurs, and he’s sat by the edge of Sam’s hip now. Soft and broad and _warm_ as he presses his hip to Sams. “I’m really here, Samuel. I’m not going to disappear.”

Sam closes his eyes. He doesn’t understand why he wants to cry, why he wants to split his chest open and lay his heart bare before Castiel in ways he could ever only do with Jess, but Castiel is tender, tender than he has the right to be towards Sam.

“I _’m scared, Castiel_.” He says instead of the way he wants to reach out, instead of the ways he wants to bury his hand in Castiel’s trench coat, in his hair; he wants to bury himself in the skin of Castiel’s vessel, and it should terrify him. He’s always wanted the wrong things, and often, he thinks of Lucifer; snake-tongue, liesmith, _truthteller_ , wonders if he’s always been more like Lucifer than he’s ever realized.

He is made for him, after all, and blood runs deep. He never tells Dean that sometimes, in the dark of the night, hidden away in the bathroom, he has to stop from calling Lucifer, has to stop from running to the person who so sweetly understands him even as he threatens him. Lucifer is sweet until he isn’t, in a twisted way that makes it so hard to realize he’s slowly wrapping you around his finger.

Sam doesn’t trust himself to not give in. He’s always been the weak one.

“For how smart you are, Samuel,” Castiel says, and there is a tightness to his voice that Sam has rarely heard. A warm hand presses against his sternum, and through the gently swaying curtain, the moonlight illuminates Castiel’s eyes to a silverlit blue, luminescent. “You can be remarkably stupid about things.”

He blinks and the world is awash in silver, shadowed and the moonlight is blocked for the briefest of moments. In the distance, Dean’s soft snores seem to settle into the background. Castiel hovers over him, and the hand resting on his sternum creeps up to his shoulder, brushes against the line of his throat until it’s resting against the underside of his chin, the thumb just touching the jut of his jaw.

“ _You will listen to me, Samuel Winchester, and you will listen closely._ ” Castiel says, and there is something to the edge of his voice that makes Sam shiver, makes him shudder as Castiel keeps him in place with only a single hand touching his face, rubbing softly at the hinge of his jaw.

“Cas?” He whispers, wants to know what has made Castiel react like this. He doesn’t understand.

Then, in a movement that has Castiel’s hand pressing against the length of Sam’s throat and then Sam is alone on the bed, kneeling up in ruffled duvets and the wind is howling quietly in the background, Dean is snoring quietly and all is still between them.

“You do yourself a disservice, _boy_.” Castiel rasps. He’s standing there, and Sam knows he should stand, so that he isn’t kneeling in the looming shadow that Castiel casts, stretched and almost _heavy_ as it lands across Sam. “You are stronger than you think.”

“Castiel…” Sam says, and it’s quiet. He lets his shoulders bow, curling in on himself even as he feels the static of sheet lightning that isn’t, roiling and electric, down the curling noose of his spine. He can smell ozone, peppermint on the breeze and he casts his gaze away from the silent reproach he can feel in Castiel’s eyes.

“You are so ready to dismiss yourself. So ready to degrade yourself and throw yourself away. Is that where you belong, Samuel Winchester? In the _pit_ , upon the _rack_ ? Is _that_ where you think you belong?”

Sam stays silent; thinks of all the ways he’s ruined things, all the people he’s killed, how letting Lucifer in sometimes seems like the easiest thing to do even as he cries out that he doesn’t want to. He wants to be free of this, he never wanted this, but he is weak, and Lucifer is so _strong_ sometimes-

“ _Tell me, boy_.”

“Yes!” Sam cries. “ _Yes_ , okay? Hell is exactly what I deserve, Castiel. I _deserve_ to be tortured, to be _hurt_. I’m a monster, Castiel! I ruin _everything_ ! I always have! I'm- I'm _cursed_ -”

Between seconds to minutes to hours, in the time it takes for a heart to beat and an eye to blink, Castiel is looming over him, and Sam gasps, mouth open and trembling. Castiel is only inches from his face, enough that Sam can see the individual strands of his lashes, the way his eyes are dark and piercing even through the growing loom of the midnight sky. Sam can feel Castiel’s damp breath, feel it against the flush of his cheeks, the way it ruffles his hair.

“You think you are cursed? That you are a monster, Samuel Winchester?” Castiel rasps, and the hand Sam can’t see slides up his throat, and Sam knows he can probably feel the slow bobbing of Sam’s adam’s apple as he swallows thickly. He feels that strangely calloused hand slip up his jaw, to his cheek, and Castiel smears the pad of his thumb under the delicate skin of Sam’s eye before that huge and warm hand drags into his hair. It takes only a second, and Sam is _gasping_ as Castiel grips his head and _yanks_ his head back. “You think you belong upon the Rack, with the _filth_ of the universe? That you belong in Hell, where we keep the once most beautiful Archangel to ever grace the Universe? That you belong in _fire_ and _brimstone_ , are you a monster, _boy_?”

“ _Y-yes_.” Sam gasps out, and he’s holding onto Castiel’s trenchcoat, the fabric body warm and safe beneath his fingers, bleached white and violet beneath the midnight neon moon, illuminated with gracelight as Castiel glares down at him.

“You are not a monster, Samuel,” Castiel says, and he pulls Sam’s head further back, until Sam has a full gaze of the cracked and depilated motel room ceiling; through the sheer curtains, the pattern of the window echoes a cross upon the cream walls. Sam clenches his eyes tightly. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness, he knows this, has always known this. He doesn’t know why Castiel wants to torture him like that. “If you were a monster, I would have placed my hand upon you and smote you where you stood, no you are not a monster, Samuel Winchester, and I want you to get rid of that delusion.”

Sam closes his eyes, feeling the burn of tears at the back of them, the way his chest is heaving and his legs are trembling. Castiel doesn’t _understand_ , and something burns deep inside his sternum that has nothing to do with the sheet lightning that isn’t slowly scraping across his bones. There doesn’t seem to be anything he can say to Castiel that makes the Seraph _understand._

Slowly, softly, like Castiel seems to always be with him, the hand fisting in his hair loosens, slowly soothes the ruffled strands down, tucks it behind Sam’s ears. It's a barely there touch, the pads of his fingers lingering only just on the shaved smooth arch of Sam's jaw, the cleft of his chin.

His eyes are still closed, he clenches them harder, enough to screw up his eyebrows, enough to give himself a headache. He doesn’t know why Castiel is torturing him like this. Castiel’s free hand touches upon his other cheek.

He opens his eyes to see Castiel closer than before, almost hunched over. He’s close enough to feel the heat of, the see the crookedness of his eyebrows, the pockmarks of his cheeks, the chapped dryness of his mouth. Castiel’s unneeded breath is soft and damp against his mouth.

“You aren’t a monster, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel tells him. “And I’ll burn in the flames of hell before I allow you to make yourself into one.”

_at intervals / a sweetness appears / and if given a chance / prevails_

— **Raymond Carver** , from “ _The Author of Her Misfortune”_


End file.
